


Cultivated Violence

by Phos



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: 90s-era Internet Forums, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Cults, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Murder, Snuff Films, Stalking, Terrible People Glorifying Serial Killers, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27943568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phos/pseuds/Phos
Summary: Thanks to the drastic increase in national coverage his victims were gaining as of late, Ghostface was beginning to amass a littlefollowing,of sorts, one that news outlets were hesitant to give any weight to despite mounting evidence otherwise. It would be remiss of Danny to overlook the unique opportunity this presented him.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Frank Morrison
Comments: 31
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fragile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragile/gifts).



> i'm in love with this pairing and no one can stop me :D

Complications.

They were never boring, no—not per _se._ It would be incorrect, however, to presume Danny was not a touch miffed by their irritating affinity for theatrics.

Everyone had their idiosyncrasies. Over the years, he’d learned that the most incidental habits revealed paranoias like nothing else could. His newest target was no exception to the rule, though after devoting so many of his nights to documenting the routines that she followed, Danny was developing what he might generously call a soft spot for hers.

 _Timid as a bird._ When the words first occurred to him, the corners of his lips had twitched up slightly, knowingly. He’d clicked his pen and sniggered, muffled behind the mask, then scribbled them along the top margin of the notepad that had taken him only a handful of hours to fill front to back as he watched her.

The occasions where her fiancé, an upstart film producer, flew out of town for an extended weekend were particularly enamoring. Alone in an empty house, she’d switch on the lights around the pool and outside patio and leave them that way long after she’d gone to bed. Not to forget how diligently she’d check and recheck the locks on all the doors—because her father had never been respectful of her boundaries, not since the last time he was granted parole only to break into her college dormroom and threaten her with a boxcutter.

And who would blame her? She was defenseless, and by Danny’s estimate, pushing eight months pregnant, give or take a few days.

She was punctual, too. So when Danny found himself waiting up for her one night after she didn’t return home from work at the usual time—a callcenter gig, not exactly the auditions her fiancé kept promising—Danny knew immediately that something was amiss. After all, it went against their routine. She’d stood him up, and it burned at him to not know why.

Then again, she more than made it up to him. Between an unexpected early labor, the decomposing fetus doctors discovered was eating her uterus from the inside out, and the hysterectomy she underwent to save her life, you’d have thought it was his birthday! How long had it been, he wondered, since the last time one of his targets delayed the inevitable end to his game, and in such an enjoyable, creative way?

A terrible thing, really. That she’d experience complications so late in the pregnancy, and just a hair shy of the due date Danny picked out for her... why, were it not for the unfortunate circumstances, he would have been offended.

Instead, he felt just the tiniest bit wistful.

He would have liked to be the one that carved it out of her.

In the weeks following her discharge from the hospital, Danny entertained the thought of allowing the incision enough time to thicken and scar. It was fascinating in a way. And between just the _two of them_... every milestone in the healing process was far more intimate than it had any right to be, or so he’d often taken to musing as he observed her through the master bedroom’s second-story window. Camera in hand, he would crouch motionless for hours to catch a single cherished glimpse. Because the moment she undressed and readied for bed unawares, the milestone wasn’t just hers anymore. It was _theirs._

Danny’s next exhale came out an exaggerated sigh, hot beneath his mask, as his shoulders mockingly drooped. “It was prettier before you had the staples removed,” he said, remorseful on her behalf. “Now, why would you do a thing like that?”

In the quiet of her bedroom, her weak, juttery little sobs were almost too perfect to his ears. He raised one gloved hand, swept it to and fro as though he were a conductor and she the grand symphony, and relished in the sensation her sweet noises stirred deep within his gut.

Danny had turned up the heat in the house so she would be more... comfortable, as she stripped. Sweat slicked his hair, trickled down the sides of his face while he waited in silence at the foot of the bed. Finally, after she freed her arms from the sleeves of her flannel sleep shirt—naked now, because good girls did _exactly_ what he asked of them—he settled on his knees atop the duvet and shifted to straddle her bare thighs.

Adjusting his grip on the camcorder, Danny tutted at the display on the tiny fold-out screen until it was where he wanted it to be. He’d been so patient, and all for her. He’d be furious if he fucked up the framing now. After all, had he not gone above and beyond to make this special? Went out and got the studio lights and everything. She glowed beneath them now.

“I thought you wanted to be famous. I thought you wanted to be on MTV. No smile for the family back home? _”_ As he teased her, his voice took on a coaxing purr, dipping so low in his register that the words were scraped out throaty and raw. He retrieved his tactical knife from its sheath. At the sound, her pupils tightened to pinpricks.

The incision from her hysterectomy had closed significantly during the extra time that he’d given her; still, the skin surrounding it was pink and freshly raised, cradling her navel like a wide and happy grin. Danny brought the curved tip of the blade down to rest between her exposed breasts, where he trailed it lower, applying _just_ the right pressure that she learned its sharpness without real need for it to actually break skin. As he did this, he tilted his head up to observe the emotions that played out across her face. Her cheeks and chin, hell, even her neck were wet and shiny with snot and tears. Danny curled his upper lip at that, though he knew she couldn’t see it, because now the pillowcase was growing dark with her damp.

“When you awoke in that hospital room, numb from the morphine, exhausted from the pain...” So close was he bent, he could taste her frantic breaths as they were puffed against his mask’s elongated mouth. “You screamed, didn’t you?”

Once he reached the dip below her belly, he flipped the blade flat and drew it down to the soft mound at the peak of her groin. There, he stilled his hand, let the moment drag out—the uncontrollable tremble of her body so terribly gratifying, pinned beneath his own. Only then did he hum and click his tongue.

“So violated. So repulsed with yourself. You shared all of that with _him,_ and what did he give you in return?” The camcorder gave an audible creak in his tightly clenched hand. “Nothing,” he hissed. “He left you for one of those talentless whores, so eager to jump on a producer’s cock if it’ll make them the next star of the show!”

The chuckle that rumbled in his chest was sharp and derisive. He paused so as to bring the camcorder in for her big close-up, pointing it at her stomach, at the incision she honestly believed she’d kept hidden. Danny mirrored its feral grin.

_“All because they took your baby.”_

“Please no,” she managed to croak, thin and reedy and thoroughly shot from all her crying. When the flat of the knife began to press in harder, the quietest whimper escaped her, and she squeezed her legs together with all the strength that she had left. He knew the wait was worth it, that she was worth it, because it was obvious, really. He knew she’d be _delightfully_ responsive.

“Sweetheart,” he chided, and softened his tone once more into a soothing, rasping lilt. “You don’t have the equipment anymore. I’m afraid you haven’t recovered enough for _that._ ”

In response, she shut her eyes and tossed her head to the side, struggling to escape the lights and the camera.

“Stage fright? How cute.” Danny clicked his tongue again. Satisfied now with what he’d recorded of her incision, he directed the camcorder back to her face and gradually zoomed in. “So you forgot your lines, that’s okay! Come here. A bit closer and I’ll whisper them to you.”

The tip of the blade returned to her stomach, where lazily it began to circle. Danny found himself engrossed with the pattern of pocks and dimples that tracked above and below the incision, remnants of the surgical staples which caught at the knife’s fine serrations. Beads of blood were quick to bloom in its wake. The scent riled him, excited him. For several seconds, he allowed the haggard, dissonant sound of his own breathing to wash over him. A frisson of arousal coiled and buzzed at the root of his dick like carbonated fizz, and he waited, unendingly patient, for his heartrate to steadily slow down.

It wouldn’t do to stray from the script. He had an audience to address, one that expected him to perform if he wanted the same in return.

“You’ve been so lonely and lost since your little accident. I think I know just the thing to cheer you up. We can recreate it so that this time, its _me_ you share it with, not him. Because _I_ never left you. I was here all along.” There was an undeniable thickness in the way that he spoke. Lustful, playful, all part of the game. He brought the knife to one of the incision’s scarred corners. Easy, it started to sink. “Now what are you supposed to say...?”

“G-Ghost—”

He snickered. “What’s that? Speak up, you know I’m all ears...”

“Ghostf-face,” she stammered out. “I want to share this. _Please._ With you.”

Danny turned the camcorder toward himself and pulled loose his knife, not bothering to look down at the shallow cut he left behind. He lifted it, tilted it this way and that. Light practically danced over the places where her blood wetted the blade. He savored the pretty gleam, how the color looked running down to the pale hilt and dripping off the leather of his glove.

“That’s it,” he praised, taking his time rolling those two words around his mouth in a heady, flirtatious husk. “And to all the kiddos watching at home—” Mask angled straight at the camcorder lens, he leisurely cocked his head. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”

There was something compellingly satisfying, Danny thought, in treading the same ground a surgeon had before him. _Exemplary work, but I can do so much better._ When he made the first real stab into her healing incision, her whole body jerked and arched, and she choked on a half-aborted wail. All the while, he kept the camcorder trained on himself rather than the real star of his show.

The rush in his veins was nothing that drugs could ever attain. It was power, plain and simple. And in this, he took his sweet time to lap up every morsel. Her hoarse screams filled the room. Blood spattered his mask in thin streaks. Panting, smiling, he licked the back of his teeth.

Then Danny raised his shoulders in what he hoped conveyed his cheekiest _what can you do?_

To the camcorder, he waved.


	2. Chapter 2

Jed Olsen stood a small ways to the side of the sound stage. By now the commercial break was nearly over, and at a loss for what to do with himself while he awaited his cue to walk out, he gave the plaid tie hanging limp at his neck a quick and anxious tug.

The tweed jacket he’d settled on for the interview was in desperate need of tailoring, though it served his intentions well enough. From his hunched posture and frumpy clothes to the thick-rimmed glasses he hid behind, there was very little notable about the reporter save for how easy it was to dismiss him. Those milling about the studio at present—the camera operators, the PAs, even the caterers he was introduced to backstage—all were likely to have made the obvious conclusion: Jed Olsen did not possess a disposition well-suited for the limelight.

Moments before the intercom signaled the end to commercial, _Hello, Roseville!’_ s news anchor emerged onto the studio floor and claimed the nearest of two armchairs positioned at center stage. The cameras went live again, and perfectly timed, she procured her warmest smile.

“Today marks the anniversary of the day local patrol officers entered the home of Tammy Delgado where they found her dead, having succumbed from multiple stab wounds to the spine. She was just thirty-four, the first of what would be many victims in the now infamous Roseville Murders. To think, a year ago we still believed it was a matter of time before the Ghostface Killer was caught.”

A tangible sense of unease blanketed the room. Seeming to shake herself, the news anchor straightened where she sat.

“Our community is no stranger to the terror that is insinuating itself into the heart of the country. In light of recent developments, the most any of us can hope for is further insight into the case—what’s happened, and what we should expect to come. With that said, for our next segment we are thrilled to welcome Jed Olsen of the _Roseville Gazette_ to the show!”

Jed’s first steps onto the big stage were measured, his pulse slow. Following the announcement, a brief round of applause erupted from the studio audience. Though it was Jed who ambled over to the armchairs and clumsily sat down, the eyes that peered out into the audience and slid over their shadowed seats, cool with disinterest, weren’t his. They were Danny’s.

“Thank you for, ah, having me, Diana,” he said, earnest. “I’ve had a b-bunch of stations asking, but it didn’t feel right? Roseville’s where I got my big break a-after all.”

Danny had always prided himself on the range of personas he could play. There was nothing challenging when it came to Ghostface, so he’d kept the game from growing stale, tried on a new face to spice up the lulls between kills. Funny how he could pitch his voice a few octaves higher, add a disarming little stutter, and that was all it took to become harmless, sympathetic Jed.

People _trusted_ Jed. Awfully silly of them, if you asked him.

Diana’s smile softened the more that he spoke. She propped an elbow on her armrest and rested her chin on a manicured hand. “You were instrumental in the Roseville investigation,” she enthused. “Most of what we know about the killer is built on your detective work. Does that not make you the Ghostface expert?”

At this, Danny dropped his palms to his thighs and brushed them along his slacks as if to wipe off sweat. “Actually, um. You give me too much credit. Whenever I thought I had f-figured him out, he’d switch everything up! L-like he— like he enjoyed running the police in circles. Running m- _me_ in circles. No traceable motive... v-victim profile...”

He looked at her then, taking his time as he did, his hooded gaze wandering over her features in undisguised perusal. Diana Worcester was in her mid twenties. An all American girl, picture-ready with her lipgloss and wind-chafed skin. Her brunette hair was parted down the middle and fell in delectable waves around her prominent chest. She was the kind of pretty they gave Ted Bundy the electric chair for craving almost a decade before.

Idly, Danny sucked part of his bottom lip into his mouth, nibbling it like a nervous tick. Diana noticed, because who wouldn’t? Her cheeks flushed the faintest amount, and he thought, _I always liked a girl who looks good in red._

Fortunately for her, he’d sworn off hunting in Roseville.

“But that’s just the th _-_ thing. Ghostface disappeared after his k-killing spree in Roseville. So I started keeping an eye on more, ah, m-minor crimes. Ones that might have matched the signature way that he stalks... outside of F-Florida, um, I mean.” Jed’s glasses had begun to slip down. He pushed them up the bridge of his nose before scratching at his neck beneath his shirt collar. “Three months ago, s-several neighborhoods in Arizona were hit with a large number of break-ins, where nothing of value was t-taken. The killer was stalking them. Getting a f-feel for where to start next. Then suddenly there were five similar murders, all in Arizona, and I knew I was r-right!”

Diana made a considering hum. “Of course,” she agreed too easily, “though if I recall correctly, debate following the Arizona stabbings was rather widespread, wouldn’t you say? It seemed that Ghostface was becoming a household name after _Stab_ premiered early last month. As I’m sure many are already aware, _Stab_ has been plagued with controversy since the project’s inception, with critics claiming the film trivializes the horrific nature of the Roseville Murders. No one could conclusively say whether Ghostface had returned or if the film simply served as inspiration for an exceptional copycat.”

Smoothing his fingers down the lapels of his jacket, the pace he set deliberate, unhurried, Danny canted his head and allowed his expression to appear thoughtful. “Of course, Diana,” he parroted after an overlong moment, his voice briefly devoid of Jed’s characteristic, nasally flair. The smile he then gifted the news anchor could have only been described as serene.

All the while, beneath the surface, Danny fought to suppress his snarl.

 _Glorified torture porn,_ one scathing critic had called that poor excuse for a slasher movie. Danny remembered all the negative things people had to say in the papers, because despite how very _much_ it made his insides just boil and steam—that Ghostface had been made into the butt of someone _else’s_ fucking idea of a joke—he’d made damn sure, to an even obsessive degree, that he got his hands on each and every published review.

Oh, he’d calmed down eventually... because wouldn’t you know it, _Stab_ ’s premiere happened to coincide wonderfully with the end of Danny’s vacation in Arizona. He’d be the first to admit that his final kill was a tad messier than his usual performances. Not because he lost himself by any means; Danny never lost control. But it had felt unexpectedly, well... pleasant, to finally find someone he could vent to, someone powerless to do anything but listen as he got the whole matter of Billy Loomis’ inadequacy out of his system.

And if he caught himself thinking, _maybe there really is some weight to this therapy thing,_ it wouldn’t have entirely been a lie. At the time, the man that Danny gave the distinct honor of choosing was an actual therapist, had the credentials framed neatly above his desk to prove it, too. And from what Danny heard, the man’s office in Tucson came highly recommended.

Come to think of it, he still had their business card tucked inside his wallet, didn’t he?

“But if we’re g-going by the timeline I p-personally compiled,” Danny continued, like the thought was only now occurring to him, “you’ll actually f-find minimal room for debate. The oldest break-in would have occurred w- _weeks_ before _Stab_ ’s production company had so much as released a t-trailer. Despite the absence of his usual taunting—no photographs were taken by the killer and sent in to the p-police—the murders were similar enough to Ghostface’s MO for the FBI, at least. They reopened the original Roseville c-case. The incidents that have happened more recently in, um, C-California however... if a-anything, _those_ were inspired. Not to mention the news that b-broke this morning!”

Across from him, Diana stared. Her eyes widened, and she clasped her hands together in her lap. The news anchor hesitated before turning to address the cameras. “For those just now tuning in at home, late last night...”

But her words were now a distant thing, for the tiniest tremor in her voice had already given her away. _Careful, your audience might get the impression that you’re uncomfortable._

Had Danny been anywhere else but onstage, he would have preened.

***

Pounding, muffled bass bled through the walls of the bathroom. Susie didn’t lift her eyes from the red solo cup which she held, didn’t so much as move from where she perched, head bowed, atop the closed toilet lid; however, despite perhaps everything, she couldn’t quite stop herself from mouthing along to Smashing Pumpkins’ _Bullet with Butterfly Wings._

Swirling the alcohol around in her cup, Susie stared down at it, unseeing. Her drink remained mostly untouched, though when Julie had first handed it to her, she’d taken a couple sips to ensure she wouldn’t come across as ungrateful. Now, nearly an hour later, she could safely say that Julie’s house parties were not really her kind of scene. It would be one thing if Julie invited kids from Fairview High, but ever since Julie’s parents decided they preferred spending the majority of their time at their second home in Calgary, her parties had become much more frequent and her popularity, meanwhile, had skyrocketed.

Julie knew just about everyone worth knowing. While those in attendance tonight were around their age if not the same, a startling number of them had made the drive out to Ormond from Calgary or further elsewhere. Friends of friends of friends, or something like that. Sure, they brought all the weed and alcohol imaginable, and Julie thrived on the attention, but they were also loud, obnoxiously so, to say nothing of the mess they would leave the house in after.

And if Susie were being completely honest, well... there was a reason why these parties made her feel so out of sorts, lost and uncomfortable. People who weren’t from Ormond tended to look down on the people who were.

 _But you_ _never wanna come anymore,_ resounded Julie’s voice, unbidden, from the depths of her memory. _It’s just one party, Sus. Plus there’s this guy I’ve really, really been wanting you to meet. So, please? For me?_

The longer Susie thought back on it, the more she found herself wishing she’d managed to grow a spine and turn the invitation down. Julie was her best friend. They’d known each other since middle school, since second period Algebra, when _Zack Crenshaw_ plopped down at the desk behind Susie and surreptitiously tried to stick gum in her hair. Luckily, Julie happened to walk inside the classroom that same moment, because she’d marched right over and upended the boy’s chair.

To this day, there was not a lot Susie wouldn’t do for her.

Enough time had passed already, she supposed, that she could make up some excuse about needing to get home early, maybe to finish an art project due for school in the morning. And so, rising to her feet, she emptied her cup in the sink as she made for the door, where she stopped to pull the hood of her sweatshirt up to cover her pink hair. There she inhaled a steadying breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed once more out into the crowd.

When she emerged, it was to the sight of a couple sucking face against the wall opposite. Handsy and more than a little drunk, they shoved past her and into the bathroom, all but slamming the door in her face. Susie cringed inward and wrapped her arms around her chest.

The hallway was littered with abandoned streamers and crushed solo cups, as well as puddles of what she _hoped_ was only beer. That wasn’t to say the kitchen was faring much better. Mrs. Kostenko had spent untold amounts of cash on getting the counters and cabinets completely remodeled. Pearly quartz and fancy mahogany moulding. It looked less like the set of a cooking show with lighters and take-out containers left overturned on the countertops, drawers hanging open with the crumbled remnants of someone’s weed stash sprinkled over the cutlery trays.

She found Joey by the arched entryway that separated the kitchen and living room. The other teen was bouncing his head to the deafening music, shouting something at the girl that stood next to him all while embellishing what he said with his hands and sloshing around his drink.

Hesitant, Susie brought her fingers forward to touch his elbow. She cleared her throat and raised her voice as much as she dared. “Joey, hey! You see where Julie went?”

“Uhhh, back porch, maybe?” His pupils were blown, his words slurred. Rubbing at the back of his neck, he squinted, adding, “Think I saw her out there a while ago.”

Susie mumbled a quick thanks.

A size-able group had gathered beneath the porch awning. Most were lounging around the chairs and couches, and she wrinkled her nose at the distinct aroma of pot, counting among them at least two bongs that were exchanging hands. Though they spoke animatedly between bites of pizza, the conversation outside was much calmer, quieter, compared to the chaos inside the house. Susie reached the stairs in a handful of strides, careful not to step in any of the pizza boxes piled here and there, and leant against the railing.

Out here, the music from the house was significantly muted, replaced with chirping crickets, the pop and crackle of the firepit in the yard below, and the soft rustling the wind made as it passed through the trees beyond the property line. Susie wouldn’t have spotted Julie had she not been wearing her favorite jacket—red flannel, grey hood, and because Julie’s face was turned to the side, in profile against the jumping firelight, the smallest peak of strawberry blonde hair.

Julie had tucked herself, criss-cross, under the table next to the firepit. A few of her tarot cards lay in a line on the glass top. It was a new and recent interest of hers, one she’d seen in a movie and instantly decided she wanted to learn for herself. Of course, with tarot reading being a rather uncommon hobby in Ormond, decks were impossible to find. So when Julie’s birthday next came around, Susie had the brilliant idea to craft her a handpainted set.

There was a guy with her as well, reclined on the couch across the table. He was older; that much was certain from the telltale shadow of ink that climbed his throat. As he leant forward over the vee of his sprawled legs, his expression was difficult to decipher beneath the shifting play of firelight and the encroaching dark, though his eyes seemed to track the movement of Julie’s hands with singular intent.

“The Devil,” Julie was saying, flipping the last card face-up. It depicted a braying ram with coiled horns, which Susie had taken great pains to inlay with gold foil. Those horns had grown inward to pierce the ram’s neck. “To meet with him is to meet with circumstance. An event that will bring out your suppressed qualities with the potential to be either good or bad. No longer held back, you’ll become the best version of yourself. Paired with the Nine of Wands though... that can represent paranoia. There’s something you should be weary of, or maybe... someone whose attention you’re going to catch?”

He took a long drag from his cigarette then. The tilt to his head might have been contemplative, had his gaze not swept so casually from Julie to the porch railing above them, where it landed on Susie instead. She was caught, rooted to the spot; however, he only smirked around the filter of his cigarette while drawing loose fingers through his dirty blond locks. Smoke escaped from his parted lips, the act infuriating for how effortless it was.

“Mysterious,” the guy drawled. “I like that. Kind of turns me on.”

If _this_ was the guy Julie had been telling her about, the same guy that she hadn’t, in fact, shut up about all week, Susie could see why. Still, she had to roll her eyes at his cocksure attitude, even as Julie laughed.

It would be awkward to intrude, she decided at length. This was Julie’s party. Julie’s attempt to fill the void that her parents’ absence was only worsening the longer they left her behind. It would just _kill_ Susie to disappoint her. And so, sighing, she headed inside before Julie saw her too.

Not four steps into the kitchen, she paused, uncertain. The oddest sensation had hit her upon re-entering through the sliding doors, the sensation akin to droplets of ice water on her naked skin, sluggish where they trickled down the small of her back. Silence had fallen over the house. The stereo was off, and she heard but a single discernable noise—the low murmur of what might have been a voice. Susie followed it to the living room, where she was greeted by a peculiar sight: Joey and a slew of others had congregated in front of the television, transfixed.

 _“For those just now tuning in at home, late last night at film cinemas across eighteen confirmed states, theater-goers received the shock of their lives when scheduled showings of_ Stab _were replaced with home video of an actual murder. Federal investigators have identified the victim as Jessica Wells from confiscated footage. Her body, which was discovered by her fiancé in their Pasadena home, was mutilated beyond recognition.”_

The station wasn’t local. Susie didn’t know where _Roseville_ was, but if she had to guess, she’d say somewhere warm. The news anchor sported a flattering tan and spoke with an American accent.

Joey sat on the carpet, the same girl Susie had seen him talking with earlier knelt beside him. “It wasn’t just in the states,” the girl said suddenly, “A friend of mine saw it happen at a theater in Calgary. She thought it was part of the movie at first. Everyone did. But then the screaming started...”

On the T.V., the camera view switched from the news anchor to a man with dark, slicked-back hair and darker eyes. His glasses made him look like a teacher, Susie thought, though he was far too nervous for someone that was supposed to be giving a live interview. The tag at the bottom of the screen read _Jed Olsen, Head Reporter on the Roseville Murders_.

_“As you know, Diana, the incidents in C-California have been building steadily since they began a few m-months back. Around when the Arizona murders began, actually? They’re getting more, um, organized. The initial stabbings were in public areas and proved nonlethal, with the p-perpetrators wearing Halloween masks to conceal their identities. But now they’re escalating. The first confirmed killed is a woman who closely resembled T-Tammy Delgado. After she was dragged from her bed during the night, her spine was f-flayed open by multiple knife wounds, just like Tammy’s was, and her body was left l-like—like a p-present out front of a Pasadena police station.”_

_“I... hadn’t made the connection back to Tammy,”_ the news anchor responded. _“And you believe those incidents are related to the snuff film that Ghostface has made public?”_

Jed Olsen was practically beaming. The expression tugged strangely at his mouth.

_“Oh... didn’t I mention? I’ve been b-brought on as a consultant with the FBI... I kept it quiet until now, but a few days ago, I received an unmarked p-package at my office address. It was a copy of the same s-snuff tape that Ghostface has now broadcasted to th-thousands. There wasn’t enough time to, ah, trace it. Of course. But b-based on its serial number... we can determine without a d-doubt that multiple copies were made. G-Ghostface would've sent these copies to his followers, and they did all the legwork for him, at theaters across the country and even some abroad.”_

_“You think that Ghostface is... colluding with these people?”_

_“I think we can c-confidently say that the tape is not directed to us. Ghostface has acknowledged his f-following. And from the looks of it, he’s encouraging them. A-after all, he does make quite the charismatic c-character... I, as well as the FBI, believe what we have on our hands is the makings of a c-cult!”_

The camera returned to the news anchor. A closer shot of her face revealed traces of fear, unbecoming on her young face. _“You think so?”_

Jed nodded, and his enthusiasm was palpable. For a moment, his voice seemed... just the slightest bit off, though Susie couldn’t quite put her finger on why. “ _Oh,_ ” he told the news anchor. _“I know so.”_

Joey scoffed. “No fuckin’ way there are loonies obsessed with this guy. He’s just a wannabe Charles Manson. The mask isn’t even scary!”

There were some mumbled agreements from the other people in the room. They began to disperse, and soon after, the music started up again.

Frozen to her spot in the entryway, Susie’s arms had once more gravitated upward to wrap around her chest and squeeze. “That’s not why it’s scary,” she said, so quiet as to be almost a whisper. “He didn’t even have to _try_ to get inside these people’s heads. They’re everywhere. And they’ve... killed for him. Why would anyone just—do that? Why would they—”

She’s interrupted at the whine of the porch door opening on its metal tracks.

“Wow, what’s going on in here?” Julie poked her head into the living room. Startled, Susie jumped in place, just a little. “There you are, Sus! Was wondering where you went.”

“Oh, um...”

Julie’s hand landed on her shoulder then, shook her a bit, teasing. Glancing over to where Joey still lingered by the television, she said, “Susie, Joey, this is Frank.”

The guy from before was hanging back behind Julie. He wore confidence like a second skin; leather jacket, skinny jeans, and a soft sort of smirk—the kind of guy who always knew just what to say to get his way.

He cocked his head, and that smirk only widened, gentling at the same time into something even genuine. “Hey. Julie’s told me lots about you two...”


	3. Chapter 3

A bead of oil landed high upon the knife’s sloped spine, where it tracked downward to the tip, indulgent and markedly slowed. With one thumb, Danny massaged a strip of cloth along the blade in controlled circles. Damascus steel possessed such incredible potential for artistry. He marveled, as he had countless times before, at the foliated bands of grey within the silver metal. Even backlit by the dingy glow of a laptop screen, the knife was a masterpiece and no less cheapened for the fact.

By the time Danny’s flight landed, the hour had already grown late. A quiet contentment sank soundly into his bones once he’d settled into his newest motel room. Lingering humidity kept the space cozy, muggy and warm. Hair freshly damp from the shower, he’d sighed, shoulders flexing, and unfurled his leather weapon roll upon the desk beside the bed. Then, as was his ritual, he began the careful process of oiling each one. A preventative measure, of course. There was always a chance that rust might creep in.

His Damascus steel clip point blade had proven a most generous companion to him during the time they’d spent together. Often, his weapon of choice for any one of his victims was dependent on whether he was in a mood, so to speak _._ Special occasions warranted his finest work, but there were those rarer moments, too. Moments where he was feeling unavoidably _frisky_.

The weapon was what made the killer. As for this knife, well, it had the tendency to turn him into quite the sloppy butcher.

Nearly finished now with his polishing, Danny’s attention drifted back to the laptop. He laid the cloth down, clicked out of his business email, and re-opened the window he’d previously minimized.

A webforum appeared onscreen, its design simple, even amateurish. Dark background. White, pixelated font housed inside floating html tables. The site’s navigation lay on one side, while a scrollbar allowed for the perusal of individual threads on the other. The newest of these postings rested, undisturbed, at the top of the feed.

> **GR1N wrote:** _Well? I’m waiting._

Three days had passed since Danny’s homemade film was screened to the public. Three days since he went out of his way to get his message out there, putting on a performance the likes of which regarded _auteurs_ would struggle to replicate, budget constraints notwithstanding.

And the thing was, Danny could be patient. He’d been nothing but cordial and undemanding; rather, he was just pleased as _punch_ to have been gifted such a unique opportunity all those months ago. For it was really the most curious thing—not long after he arrived in Roseville and started making a name for himself as Jed Olsen with _The Gazette,_ an anonymous message had appeared in his tip email, empty save for a hyperlink leading to a seemingly innocuous online forum.

Danny had an inkling of why—and by whom—the forum was brought to his attention. Its users were faceless screen-names, but as a collective, they shared in a myriad of urges which were wholly unpalatable to the outside world.

Pedestrian, almost, how loneliness and a desire for acceptance prompted them to search the internet for an unlisted site, one where they might crudely discuss obituaries without censure and upload photographs of dissected roadkill to their hearts’ content.

Because people, no matter the breed, were inherently the same.

A low noise of consideration left Danny’s mouth as he traced the pad of a finger under the knife’s finely-sharpened edge. Frankly, it was cute how susceptible the forum’s users were to his encouragement and praise. And Danny didn’t have to do a thing; before they’d even suspected him of his true identity, they were perhaps Jed Olsen’s biggest fans.

Fondly, he recalled the morning, two weeks ago, when he saw the news that a woman’s body had been deposited overnight on the steps of a police station in California. The same area, no less, in which public stabbings were occurring with increasing frequency. The victim’s wounds were meant to mirror those he himself had carved out of Tammy Delgado during his stint in Roseville. He would recognize his own work anywhere, let alone so passionately reconstructed. Copycats were unimaginative and dull; however, the aforementioned murder wasn’t intended to mock Danny, not like _Stab_ set out to do with Ghostface.

It was an homage.

_I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours._

Danny was patient. He could wait a short while longer to reap his spoils. Although he’d posted to the forum almost a full twenty-four hours prior, he wasn’t expecting an answer so soon. But when he clicked back to the browser and refreshed the page, he paused there, his entire body gone abruptly still.

Someone _had_ responded.

> **XxNeverStopSlashingxX:** _caught a late screening of ur porno. congrats BTW. made the news up here in canada. gotta admit tho, with all the hype? was expecting something raunchier_

As his gaze slid over the message, a most bothersome twitch started tugging at Danny’s right eye. Just seconds before, he’d been pleasantly entertained, playing back the memory of Tammy’s whimpers in his head like the distorted audio from one of his home videos. Why, he might have even cracked a smile... now though, what little expression had snuck onto his face was quick to disintegrate into nothing.

_Oh._ The thought was dark and vague, even as it came to him. _I remember you._

With amusement, he noted an intrusive, coppery scent blooming beneath the moist air inside the motel room. He forgot himself for a moment, pressing down against the edge of the knife, and for it, he’d sliced open his own finger.

“That fucking brat,” Danny hissed. He reclined away from the desk so as to dig his shoulders into the chair’s cushioned back. The cut tingled more than hurt. Gaze hooded, intent, he focused briefly on his heartbeat, the steady throb of which now lay at his fingertip, pulsing in time with the blood racing toward his palm. It dripped off his hand and spattered his clean slacks.

Danny had his favorites... There were those who frequented the forum most. Those who had proven themselves more than loyal, enough that he’d entrusted them with copies of Jessica Wells’ _audition tape_. They’d carried out his plan so beautifully, and to his exact specifications, hadn’t they? After all, three days later, Ghostface was the only thing the news stations could talk about.

But then, there were also those who Danny knew from the beginning would be something else altogether. Exceptional, you might say. Who would be the first to answer? The question had stuck in his head since departing his onstage interview with _Hello, Roseville!_

_Ghostface has acknowledged his following. And from the looks of it, he’s encouraging them._

Would it be someone like _shap3, who managed to go without typing a single word, only continued to post blurry photographs of the neighborhood pets they would trap and maim? Or perhaps HxAWxK, who prided themselves on their collection of feathers and bones, what had belonged to just birds at first before growing to include human ones, too.

No, of course not! Instead, XxNeverStopSlashingxX had made their customary appearance in one of Danny’s threads, for they just couldn’t help themselves—always butting in with their inane commentary and _goading_ remarks. It was beginning to get on Danny’s last nerve, but he wasn’t the only one...

_Cute hobby_ , they’d complimented to _shap3 on several occasions. _Stamps get too boring for you?_ they’d once asked of HxAWxK.

_Hungry for attention_ , Danny read between the lines.

They were young, that much he was certain of. Though the fact was made far too obvious by their flippant tone, they were argumentative more often than not, and on top of their constant and irritating failure to adhere to proper capitalization, spoke exclusively as if chatting through AIM. All told, it was a wonder that punctuation didn’t elude them as well.

His temper simmering like an itch under his skin, Danny stood and re-entered the bathroom in search of the gauze he’d earlier unpacked. By the time he returned to the desk, he felt he had suitably calmed his initial spike of fury at XxNeverStopSlashingxX’s response. He considered not replying at all, but then again, that would paint Danny as weak, and he couldn’t be allowing that, now could he?

> **GR1N:** _You must be confused. I’m not Billy Loomis._

That anyone would dare compare _his_ work to _Stab_ ’s low budget pornography... had Danny not been in such a good mood since his interview, he’d be practically homicidal. Putting that aside though, it was plain and simple. He was fucking annoyed.

When _Stab_ premiered, the scene that garnered immediate ridicule from critics and audience alike directly followed a torturous six-minute cut wherein Billy _finally_ got to have sex with his girlfriend, because next thing you knew, he was stabbing her—her laughably fake, bright pink blood drenching the ceiling, the walls, the bed. Add to that, the scene was dramatized by her god awful moaning, identical in every way to the sounds she’d made when he fucked her.

_Glorified torture porn._

Danny’s right eye twitched again.

Make no mistake, Jessica Wells’ pretty screams rang harsh as he ripped them from her lungs, but her noises were also made all the sweeter by her fear, the irreplicable desperation that had rendered her throat hoarse and reddened the soft skin beneath her dried tears.

Danny wasn’t in the habit of lying, least of all to himself. The way he’d felt when he killed Jessica, when he cut open her abdomen and exposed every last inch of her entrails to the studio lights, while at the same time, ensuring that the feast remained out of view of the camcorder... it was a straight shot to his dick. Oh, he’d been unspeakably hard by the end of their little filming session, but Danny was a _professional._ His arousal would have muddied the ambiance, taken away from the perfect craftsmanship that was his mise-en-scène. And he hadn’t worried one bit about his intent being read otherwise. The Ghostface mask, ever-present, was his insurance of that.

> **XxNeverStopSlashingxX:** _LOL_ _coulda fooled me. surprised u didnt fuck her after cuz it rlly looked like u wanted to_

“That _fucking_...”

Unexpectedly, or in fact quite the opposite, the brat was making a point to respond within seconds of Danny hitting send.

There was a thought rolling around the back of his head. Call it an observation, really. Rather than stew in his annoyance, Danny retrieved his Damascus knife from the tabletop and brought it forward to rest against his chin, a degree of slyness about his newly upturned lips. Perhaps he was on the mark with how young this one was after all. If he had to make an educated guess, somebody sounded _frustrated._ Maybe that’s why they were so keen on projecting...

> **GR1N:** _Aww, did somebody take a hot date to the movies and leave disappointed?_
> 
> **GR1N:** _You’re awfully new here, so just this once, I’ll spell it out for you: I don’t play with my food._

After a few minutes came and went, and the other had yet to post any further response, a part of Danny felt positively smug at having won. The alarm clock by the bed read a hair past midnight, and so, humming a jaunty tune beneath his breath, he fished the keys to his rental out of the coat he’d hung by the door and walked across the street to a 24-hour gas station in search of black coffee.

Another twenty minutes later saw him parking along the tree-lined sidewalk of a sleepy, picturesque neighborhood. His rental, a ‘94 Volkswagen in navy blue, was a barely-there smudge of color against the backdrop of the darkened cul-de-sac. An expensive two-story affair sat on the opposite side of the street, nearly blending into the darkness with its wood paneling and burgundy shingled roof. The lawn, as well, was right out of a waiting room magazine. Light from a streetlamp at the cul-de-sac’s mouth scattered across the fallen leaves there, glistened in the dew leftover from the recent rain.

The California air was balmier than Danny remembered it being before his departure to Florida. When he cut off the ignition, he rolled down the windows to alleviate the suffocating heat. Sweat slicked his skin beneath his clothes, and where he’d rolled up his shirt sleeves, he had to peel his bare forearms from the vinyl armrests. His address book was tucked safely in the duffel he’d tossed into the backseat before he left the motel. With it now in hand, one by one, he turned over its pages with utmost reverence, dwelling for some time on each and every name he’d penned inside its ledger. In the empty quiet that followed, the soft sound of susurrating paper could only have been described as euphoric.

Two cross-country flights within as many days had done more than deepen the bags under Danny’s eyelids, but not even for a moment did he consider altering his sleep schedule to accommodate the jetlag. Over the past three days, few chances had arisen where he could sit down and study his list like he wanted to. Jed Olsen was, after all, a busy man, especially as of late.

Though the FBI were looking into the mass stabbings in Pasadena and its surrounding cities for months prior to Jessica Wells’ murder, it wasn’t until Ghostface linked himself to these incidents that the FBI had contacted Jed in hopes of borrowing the reporter’s particular brand of expertise. Their agreement was that he would stay in the Pasadena area for the time being, at least while the FBI’s investigation was in its fledgling stages. Funny how it worked out that way. Danny paid Jessica a much anticipated visit, flew out to Florida the following morning to attend his television interview, then suddenly the FBI were calling him right back!

Things were just starting to get _interesting_ with that online fangroup of his. It was his intention from the start to return to California, but to now have two hands in the cookie jar, so to speak, what with the Federal Bureau salivating for Jed Olsen of all people...

A chuckle vibrated deep within Danny’s throat. The noise was as much appreciative as it was mean. He supposed he had the FBI to thank for assigning him such a gullible _partner_ as one Jeff Johansen. At present, the agent was under the impression that Jed would be occupied with conducting interviews around town in between twiddling his thumbs.

Drawing a finger down the most recent page of his address book, Danny smiled, wide and satisfied, at the name scrawled there in neat blue ink. Nobody said he couldn’t have his _fun_ while he was in the neighborhood. He’d done more than enough research while picking the perfect star for his film debut, and he held the fruit of that labor right here in his gloved hands.

Across the street, the Thomas household looked to be, for all appearances, a heavenly slice of middle-class suburbia. A glance at the rental’s digital display told him it was now nearing half past twelve, and yet, he was staring at the only house on the block with windows still aglow. A flicker of ambient blue beneath the living room curtains was a clear indicator that someone was watching the television set, meanwhile, the light in the second floor hallway was on, as was the floor lamp in the master bedroom, the blinds of which sat conveniently at half-mast and allowed for a tantalizing peak inside.

It must have been Danny’s lucky day, because it was a Tuesday, meaning Mr. Thomas would be out working the night shift, and as for the babysitter...

She and her highschool sweetheart were on the cusp of hot and heavy. Danny had arrived just in time to track their movement through the hallway, and though he caught only a glimpse of their lower bodies, he could see that her boyfriend’s hands had begun to slip into her pants as they made out, fast and dirty, against the door to Mr. Thomas’ bedroom. A nice solid R rating on their way to NC-17.

_was expecting something raunchier_

Danny snorted, stepping out of the car and popping the trunk as he did so. His movements became at once perfunctory, noiseless. It had never felt better to adorn the costume again, as if it’d been weeks since the last time he wore it rather than a mere matter of days. The rain cape he slipped on first, calmly smoothing down the frayed and tattered ends before shifting his attention to the mask. Returned to its rightful place, Danny luxuriated, a moment, in the stench imbued behind the cheap plastic and cowl—old sweat and rubbing alcohol, congealed together in one heady mixture that never failed to arouse an almost pavlovian excitement in him.

Next came the equipment; he dragged his camera case forward until it was bumping the lip of the trunk then unbuckled the clasps. EOS-1Ns were top of the market, and his was worth every penny spent. It was so dark in the cul-de-sac that the contents of the case were impossible to make out, but in that, he had all the practice in the world, mounting the telephoto lens before crossing over onto the Thomases’ lawn.

As Danny circled around to the backyard, dead leaves cracked beneath the treads of his hiking boots. He lifted himself over the fence in one fluid motion and wove between a copse of trees. From here, he had a perfect view into the kitchen through the narrow window above the sink, and beyond that, through an open door, the living room. The babysitter was a footnote, really, and not of his concern. His real prize was curled up on the couch, bathed in blue from the T.V.

Megan Thomas had a birthday last week, and was now all of seven years old, though not yet a _big girl_ , much as she dearly wanted. She was an only child; straight A’s, athletic, and entirely unused to losing, she finished first place at every meet for her youth track and field team. There wasn’t a single shred of worry in her untroubled head... that was, until a couple months back when mommy got caught cheating with one of the neighbors, and loverboy, who also happened to be married, blew mommy’s brains out before turning the shotgun on himself. After school, little Megan skipped home from the bus-stop and found their corpses soaking in stagnant blood on the master bed.

Danny recalled _that_ section of the police report with a dreamy sigh; apparently, once the coroner arrived, bits of Mrs. Thomas’ grey matter were still sliding down the wall above the headboard.

_Little rabbit, more like,_ he corrected. _Out in the open, unaware she should be sprinting for the hills._

Bias had never factored into the victims he chose. Children were so _boring_ though, defenseless as they were. He vastly preferred being the cause for their distress, their vulnerability, their _fear._ Megan’s daddy, on the other hand... that was a different story entirely. Mr. Thomas was popular among the local community. A perfect neighbor and perfect father, _was_ a perfect husband. And even tragedy couldn’t dampen the man’s resilience. No, he was so perfect and _good_ that he put the life insurance from the missus in a college fund for his daughter, and was now working a second job at a meat-packing plant so that they wouldn’t lose their home.

It was admirable, _rising above adversity,_ the kind of fluff piece the average American would just chew right up. To Danny, that feel-good shit was irritating. He wanted nothing more than to stare into the man’s eyes and watch the light there dim as he snuffed its vestiges out. And what better way to do that, of course, than through Daddy’s baby girl.

Camera raised, he peers at her through the viewfinder, and with a twist of his wrist, rotates the attached lens, drawing her pale, heart-shaped face in close. The babysitter was exceptionally predictable, leaving Megan on her lonesome. How rude, _depraved_ , convincing a child to lie about the quality time their babysitter would be spending with her beau, and in exchange, they could stay up as late as the adults did. And this wasn’t even the first time! Danny snapped a photo, a tsk rolling over his tongue in honest reprimand, though it was lost beneath the click and whirr of the camera.

The poor thing... she’d been traumatized. Dropped out of the track team, allowed her grades to slip, became reclusive and so unlike the energetic extrovert she was before, enough that Mr. Thomas was on the verge of hauling his daughter to therapy.

Someone like that could use a sympathetic ear.

Danny released the camera, allowing it to hang down from his neck as he dug out the cellular phone from his back pocket. He flipped it open and dialed the number for the Thomases’ landline, which he’d filed like something precious inside his address book some weeks ago. Now, anticipation bubbled in his stomach, and Danny did not so much smile as pull back his upper lip, unseen behind the Ghostface mask, in a proverbial show of teeth.

No sound carried across the yard; yet, he knew the moment the corded phone in the kitchen started to ring, because Megan pulled herself up on her pajama-clad knees and glanced toward the open doorway. Because Mr. Thomas was out of the house so often for work, he had drilled into the babysitter the importance of picking up the phone in the off chance either the bank or the family lawyer came calling. On one of the few occasions a call was missed, Mr. Thomas had been justifiably upset.

Luckily for Danny, a child such as she was naïve to the greater going-ons in the world, and to the headline news of Jessica Wells’ death.

“C’ _mon,_ ” he whispered, rapt, pressing the cellphone tight to his ear and counting the rings. Over by the couch, the girl had risen to her feet and now stood there, frozen with uncertainty. She turned her head in the direction of the stairs, where the babysitter had gone. Then she turned back to the kitchen.

A crackle interrupts the dial tone. Silence.

“...hello?”

Danny bit back on his amusement, head cocking, so _very_ pleased.

_Caught you._


End file.
